I listened to the willows weep

In cold of late december.

Though their lament, I heard a song—

But now I misremember.

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It went like pitter-pattered rain,

The sound of beating wings.

A drop of dew; a rendered step,

The voice of nesting rings.

---

A rhythmic tune of snowfall,

Along with river's harp.

A mournful wail from wolven far,

To break the silence, sharp.

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I once wanted a song to sing,

One that alone was mine.

A tune to which my voice was free;

To which my heart could shine.